Cold
by Jaconcer
Summary: There was wind, a steady, roaring wind that sends ice flying into his face, his raised arms. He cried out, begging, pleading for anyone to answer. "Cullen! Cassandra! Varric! Please! Anyone?" But there is no answer to his plea, except for the whistling of the wind. Older one-shot from last august


Elian groaned as he stared up at the ceiling of the cavern he had fallen (rather ungracefully) into. His ribs ached, and the Anchor pulsed every so often, sending waves up pain up his left arm. Unsurprisingly, his ankle hurt too, after one of those damned demons that he had been fighting had knocked him off of his feet. It was sprained. Probably. The cave was dark and cold, and Elian could not think of a time where he would rather be tucked into his comfortable bed in Haven. Oh. Haven. A sick feeling curled in his gut, and he swallowed, grimacing at the terrible taste in his mouth.

Sitting up, Elian, winced and wrapped an arm around his stomach, as if it would lessen his pain. Standing was even harder, and he had to use a stalagmite to stand, albeit slightly hunched over. He huffed, watching as his breath appeared in little white clouds, allowing himself to relax for a minute. They had fought so hard, only to lose so many. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forwards, ignoring the flare of pain that it brought him. He was going to get out of this damned cave, and then he was going to find his friends.

As Elian made his way out of the cave, he could feel it. Defensively, he raised his arms to shield his face. There was wind, a steady, roaring wind that sends ice flying into his face, his raised arms, his stinging ribs. He cried out, begging, pleading for anyone to answer.

"Cullen! Cassandra! Varric! Please! Anyone?" Maybe someone would find him, patch him up. Maybe then he could find his friends, find out if they were alright. But there is no answer to his plea, except for the whistling of the wind. He staggered onwards, struggling to breathe as both the high altitude and wind tore his breath from him. Not to mention that his ribs protested every time he took a breath. He couldn't tell if they were broken or bruised, and really, he was hoping for the latter of the two. At least then he wouldn't be out for a long time, only if he was found before he froze to death.

There were no sounds but the sounds of the wind and the snow crunching under his feet. Elian had long given up holding his arms up to protect himself. His feet had gone numb first, then his arms, then even his face had succumbed to the same feeling. Now, he was left holding his arms around his stomach, head down, trying to watch where he was going so he didn't slip off of a cliff and die. Stumbling slightly, Elian groaned as his hurt ankle sent a wave of pain up his leg.

"I know. I know." Elian muttered to himself, shivering and pulling his arms tighter around his middle. He simply ignored the ache of protect coming from his ribs, deciding that freezing to death was worse than his ribs hurting a little longer. "It hurts and you want to go home, but you can't." He said bitterly to himself. Maker, he was exhausted. Why hadn't he found anyone? No demons, no Inquisition troops. No one. His breath caught in his throat as he had a sudden realization. What if I'm going the opposite direction they are? Elian grimaced, blinking his eyes to stop them from watering. It was alright. He could do this. He was fine.

Everything was numb. And soaking wet, but that wasn't the point. He stumbled forwards, blindly continuing in the direction he had started out from. How long had he been walking for, anyways? Almost distantly, he felt his ribs hurting, the Anchor flaring up, green light flickering in the corner of his eye. At least if he died out here, he wouldn't just see darkness and snow. His foot hit something solid suddenly, and Elian glanced down, expecting a rock or a piece of ice. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a metal pot, sticking up in the snow. Oh. What was this doing up here? Looking up, Elian looked around the area, and, spotting a patch of dark against the ivory snow, he set off towards it. He was rewarded with the slight smell of smoke, and a faint dust on his boots. Embers. Fresh ones too.

With a renewed resolve, Elian stumbled forwards, numb legs and feet not entirely cooperating with his brain. His vision started getting fuzzy, and Elian let out a yelp as he tripped over his own feet in his haste. Distantly, he heard someone shot out his name, but in all honesty, he was far too preoccupied with how comfortable the snow was. Why hadn't he done this sooner? Just lay down and rest? A hand was shaking at his shoulder, and he blinked, just barely making out the concerned face of Cullen above him. Oh, his friends. Elian gave Cullen a loopy grin, before he promptly passed out, his body finally giving in to its fatigue.


End file.
